My entire life I have had a love affair with the written word. This has taken the form of obsessively reading books to the point of missing sleep, the form of writing several hundred poems, and the form of essays that former educators had touted as being eloquently written.
In college, I double majored in English and Rhetoric&Writing, with a minor in Creative Writing. While I have many dreams for my present and future, one of them has always been to have my written words published. One might make the argument (as in fact I have with my husband) that I am already a published author with five years worth of blog posts under my proverbial belt. Not to mention the poems, articles, and essays I have had published in college magazines. Then there’s the political magazine I wrote for this year, which actually paid me for my work.
But in spite of these successes, I am far from the point of making a living at my writing. My blog doesn’t have the kind of cult following that generates incomes, and I am reluctant to allow Google Adsense into the picture.
I have sent my poems off to potential publishers this year. Fourteen poems went out, three rejection letters came back to my email inbox. I had sent six poems to one magazine and two sets of four poems to another magazine. It made sense to send the maximum allowed submissions each time.
It used to be that you could get your rejection letter and frame it Now you gotta get it in the email inbox. What ya gonna do? Some authors claim to have papered the walls of their home office with rejection letters, or at least kept a filing cabinet full of them. I have the virtual equivalent, I suppose, files on my computer that list which things have been sent off and to where.
I suppose my current problem is that I don’t have any new material. I lack poetry inspiration. In fact, I haven’t written a poem since I was in college. Okay, so I only graduated in May. Perhaps it is not unusual to go several months without writing. But it seems that I can’t write unless I’m depressed or something. Otherwise it usually sounds like a fucking Hallmark greeting card.
I have a friend who does what he calls carpet-bombing, sending several things off to several places in the hopes of hitting one that will actually publish. He has been published in the past, for pay. I could and should do the same. I have another friend who has set up a home office and writing routine. I could and should do the same.
I have the right to write and it is right that I do so, but I seem to recently lack the will or desire. It is all I can do to force myself to catch up on blog drafts occasionally. I think being in college inspired me to write. Having a job outside of the home inspired me to write. I can’t seem to find inspiration in my daily life, such as it is, doing domestic chores and raising babies. Perhaps because I’m too busy living my life to stop and examine it. Blogging is a form of writing and is instant publishing, but I am not earning money for my work. I suppose for some it is enough to simply write for the sake of writing, without wanting or needing it to be read, let alone published. At times, that is the same for me, but at other times I feel that need more.
Sacred Reich–What you read, what you see, what you think, form their thought from their view, from their in.